


Amid the Winter Snow

by ChancellorGriffin



Series: Five Red Dresses: A Collection of Kabby Christmas Eve AU's [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Priests, Christmas, Christmas With Family, F/M, Ireland, Priests, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5455502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The holiday feast at Blake Farm is in full swing, but Marcus has one more Christmas Eve surprise for Abigail.  Sequel to the Kabby AU "Fields of Athenry," set in the 1920's in rural Ireland. Takes place three days later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amid the Winter Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fields of Athenry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105525) by [ChancellorGriffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin). 



 

Thank God for Octavia.

It was thanks to her foresight and resourcefulness that Abigail’s cottage was cleaned and stocked with firewood, with a cold meat pie in the larder, a barrel of cider and one of beer.  Left to their own devices, neither Abigail nor Marcus would have thought, on that cold December Tuesday night, to stock in rations for the coming week.

Which would have been a great pity, as it was hard enough for them to tear themselves away from each other long enough even to walk into the other room for a cold supper, let alone all the way up the sea road to the village market.

Marcus had been relieved of his farmhand duties until after the Christmas feast tomorrow, which had given him three blissful days to do nothing but lie in bed with Abigail.  If anyone living along the sea road noticed that no one had gone in or out of the cottage in all that time, that the lady doctor had been seen arriving Tuesday on the Millers’ boat but had not been spotted since, that Father Kane (of course, it was plain Marcus now, but old habits die hard) had missed daily Mass for the first time since he moved to the island . . . well.  They were simple people, the folk of St. Brigid, but none of them were fools.  And while they might have been a bit too proper to speculate amongst themselves about the details of what was going on down in the cottage by the sea, not a one of them couldn’t guess.

(Still and all, let’s not give Mrs. Monroe a fit of the vapors by letting her know that at this very moment, the lady doctor is flat on her back in the blue-and-white striped bed, crying out in pleasure with Father Kane’s dark head buried between her thighs.  Let’s go see for ourselves, shall we?)

* * *

“Sweet Jesus,” groaned Marcus into the soft white skin of Abigail’s shoulder as he trembled and shuddered inside her and came with a heavy, deep sigh.  She ran a tender hand through his sweat-dampened hair and laughed.

“That’s taking the Lord’s name in vain,” she reproached him.  “What on earth would Bishop Thelonious say?”

“Well, first of all,” he said, taking one nipple in his mouth and gently suckling it, eliciting a sharp little breath of delight, “he’s not a bishop anymore.  Second of all, it’s very poor manners to be saying other men’s names while I’m still inside you.”

“Bellamy Blake,” she said.  “Bishop Finn Collins.”

“What did I just say?”

“Lincoln.  Father Jasper.  Bishop what’s his name, the one you don’t like.  Murphy.”

“Dammit, Abigail – “

“Old Miller,” she said, and collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“Woman, you shut your mouth,” he growled, smothering her with a rough kiss, and even though her mouth melted instantly against his he could feel that she was still laughing.

“How in the name of Christ on the cross do you expect a man to do right by his woman if you keep nattering on about Old Miller and ruining his concentration?” he muttered crossly.  She laughed out loud.

“You needed a rest anyway, you beast,” she said.  “It’s past three in the afternoon and you’ve already had me five times today.”

“Oh, I see,” he said.  “You mean _you_ needed a rest.”

“Ladies don’t need a rest between,” she said primly, reaching a hand down to caress Marcus between his thighs, feeling the heavy softness beginning to quicken the faintest bit beneath her hands.  “We’re really far more efficient.”

“Oh, is that the word for it?” he said, raising an eyebrow, and feeling his breath catch as her hand rose and fell, gripping him in her tight little fist.  He was not hard again, not yet – it was still too soon – but her touch was exquisite agony nonetheless.

“Here’s your anatomy lesson for the day,” she murmured, watching in delight as he pressed his eyes closed against the sweet torture of sensation she was causing.  “The refractory period is the name given to the interval of time after a man’s climax before he is capable of another one.”  She gripped him harder, and he let out an audible gasp.

“Jesus, Abigail – “

“During the refractory period,” she went on in the businesslike tone he’d heard her use on patients, “the male organ is excessively sensitive to touch.” Her fingers slid up his soft shaft, still warm and wet and covered in her wetness, and squeezed.  He flinched so hard she almost lost her grip on him.  “Now, the length of the refractory period varies from man to man, and can extend anywhere from a few minutes to several days.”  She gave him a startlingly hard press that elicited another loud moan of anguish.

“You’re killing me, woman.”

“Over the past few days,” she went on in the same crisp tone, as if he hadn’t spoken, “I’ve clocked yours at around twenty minutes.  Which means no matter what I do,” she added, slicking the top of her thumb across his throbbingly sensitive tip, sending a jolt of sensation through him, “you won’t be ready for me again until that clock says three-thirty.  Which is a pity, because my far-superior women’s organs are ready right now and I’m not at all convinced I can wait that long.”

“I’ll have to think of something else to try, then, won’t I?” he said, flipping her onto her back against the soft mattress, eliciting a yelp of amused surprise.

“Yes,” she agreed, grasping his hair in her hands and pushing his head down to where he could smell the rich warm musky scent of her, “you’ll have to be creative.”  She gasped in pleasure as he buried his face deep within her soft, aching wetness and nuzzled at her like a hungry animal.  “But don’t worry,” she said with a teasing grin as her hips rose up to meet his mouth.  “I can see the clock from here.”

“Believe me,” he murmured, seizing the hot little bud inside her soft folds between his lips and suckling at it until she cried out.  “I don’t need the damned clock.”

  
* * *

Abigail had spent last Christmas alone.

Beginning to feel a rising sense of panic about the feelings for Father Kane she could no longer repress, she had simply left. She’d taken Old Miller’s boat to the Killarney train and then gone home to Athenry for the week. Her parents’ empty house had been just as she’d left it. Someday, she thought, she would have the strength to pack up their things, to empty out the house and sell it. It had been nearly ten years, after all. But she wasn’t quite ready yet. Not after losing Jake, not with Clarke so far away. She’d felt a strong pull to hold onto something that felt a bit like family.

But it hadn’t.

She’d kept Christmas in her own quiet way, with a fire in the fireplace that didn’t keep off the chill and a roast chicken dinner from the inn down the street. She’d placed a few sprigs of holly in a dented silver cup on the mantel, which was all the holiday cheer her heart could manage. Her only child was an ocean away and hadn’t spoken a word to her in years. Her husband was dead. And the only thing left in her life to bring her joy brought with it just as much pain – for there could be nothing between herself and Father Kane, not now nor ever.

So she had sat alone in that dark little house and stared into the fireplace and tried very hard not to think about her daughter, or the ghosts of her long-dead parents, or the way her heart pulsed inside her chest like a martial drum whenever Father Kane came near her, and she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.

 _What a difference a year makes,_ she thought to herself as Marcus pushed open the heavy wooden front door and they stepped into the merry, spice-scented, noisy warmth of Blake Farm where they were were greeted by a chorus of delighted voices.

“Abigail!” exclaimed Octavia, and pushed through the crowd towards them, baby Indra resting on her hip. She kissed the older woman’s cheek, took her hand and led her inside. “We’ll be sitting down to dinner soon,” she said.  "Come in and have a cup of cider.”

The great hall of Blake Farm, with its lofty high ceilings and vast stone fireplace, was bedecked with boughs of holly on every surface and a tremendous pine tree presiding over the festivities in the corner, tied all over with red ribbon and a collection of intricately carved wooden ornaments. Half the village was already inside, helping themselves to hot cider from the kettle over the hearth (Abigail watched in amusement as young Miller peered guiltily over his shoulder before reaching up to the mantle and pouring a healthy draft of whiskey into his). Mrs. Monroe greeted Abigail with an embrace and passed her a cup of hot cider, well-spiked with whiskey, and one for Marcus as well.

“Now _this_ feels like a real Christmas,” said Marcus, pleased, as they made their way around the room and were greeted by hugs and handshakes all around. “This is how Christmas ought to feel.” Abby nodded without speaking, not quite trusting her voice yet – it was so hard to be surrounded by all this cheer and goodwill and yet be so far from her only child, without whom it would never properly feel like Christmas to her – but Marcus’ childlike delight was infectious. She sipped at her hot cider, heavily spiced with cinnamon and clove, and felt its rich sweetness warm her down to the bone.

“Come look at the tree,” said Marcus happily, tugging at her hand and leading her to the far side of the room, where the tree stood in front of a vast snow-frosted window that looked out over the farm below. Abby inhaled the rich pine scent. It was hard to find real Christmas trees in this part of the country, where the soil was so dry, but Blake Farm had one every year. They sent away for it, Octavia had told her once, had it shipped by train and carried to the island in the Millers’ boat. Everyone in the village came to Blake Farm at Christmas, so it was like a gift for them all.

Abby reached out and lifted one of the carved wooden ornaments off the tree. It was an angel, about the size of her hand in a flowing gown with long hair and magnificent arched wings. The tree was covered in them, at least a dozen. “This is lovely,” she murmured, turning it over in her hand. “I wonder if Lincoln made these.”

“It wasn’t Lincoln,” said Marcus in a low voice. “Look closer.”

She bent her head and peered more closely at the wooden figurine. There was something, after all, oddly familiar in the angel’s dress – in the cut of the sleeves, the shape of the neckline, the way her cape flowed out behind her . . .

The way her braid fell over her shoulder . . .

She looked up at him in wonderment.

“It took me nearly two months,” he said. “The whole set, I mean. Or rather, two months to get a set nice enough to give Octavia to put on the tree. A number of half-finished ones ended up in the fire.”

“Marcus,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I could never get you out of my mind,” he said in a low voice, as the din and chaos of the Christmas party faded away around them, leaving them the only people in the room. “Not a day went by where I didn’t think about that day when you came to church in your red dress. You changed my life that morning, Abigail. You saved me.” He bent his head and kissed her. “You’re the angel,” he said. “You always were.”

* * *

Blake Farm had had a good year, and the Christmas feast was plentiful. Marcus was good with his hands, Octavia had told Abigail with an entirely straight face, and the vegetable field they’d turned over to his care was thriving. The sheep liked him too, which they all found amusing in the context of his previous profession. “He hasn’t made friends with the cattle yet,” Lincoln observed, as he pulled out Abigail’s chair and helped her to her seat at the table in the great hall, “but give it time. He’s new at this yet.”

“He seems to be fitting in nicely,” she observed. Bellamy, across the table from her, made a face.

“I don’t know about that,” he said dubiously. “A man whose still too frightened yet to milk a cow can’t really call himself a farmer.”

“I’m not frightened,” retorted Marcus defensively, “I’m just . . . cautious.”

“Aye, cautious about getting kicked in the head again,” chimed in Mrs. Monroe from the end of the table, and everyone laughed as though the whole village was in on the joke. Marcus shot her a dark glower, which only made her laugh harder.

“Kicked in the head?” Abby repeated incredulously.

“Last spring,” said Bellamy. “Lincoln tried to teach him to milk Bess and . . . well . . .”

“We were unsuccessful,” said Lincoln dryly.

“It was a sight to see,” added Bellamy. “She reared back and kicked out her hind legs like a bucking stallion and next we knew he was on the floor, covered in hay. He hasn’t been able to get near her since. With Lincoln, or Octavia, or me, she’s the mildest-mannered creature that ever lived, but she can’t bear to have Kane touch her.”

“Well, it’s her loss,” said Abigail irrepressibly before she could stop herself, and the whole table roared with laughter as Marcus blushed furiously and stared down at his plate.

Nearly everyone had arrived by now, with only a few seats around the vast table left empty, including one across from Abigail, between Bellamy and Young Miller. “Where’s your father?” she asked the boy, realizing Old Miller was the only person she couldn’t recall having seen since she came in the door.

Young Miller didn’t answer, but turned to look – rather puzzlingly – at Lincoln and Octavia. Lincoln gave him just the faintest, nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “He’s on his way,” Octavia answered for the boy. “He’ll be here any moment. He was waiting on a delivery that came in today on the Killarney train, with the post.”

“There _is_ no post on Christmas Eve,” said Abigail suspiciously.

“It was a special delivery,” said the voice of Old Miller from behind her, and Abigail turned around.

The cup of cider fell from her hand and clattered to the floor.

There, standing in the doorway, as snow breezed in around them, stood Old Miller carrying a pile of suitcases beside a figure wrapped in a heavy woolen cape, already frosted over with snowflakes. She pulled down the hood and shook the snow out of her sun-bright hair, and even though her eyes were half-blinded by tears Abigail would have known that hair anywhere.

“Merry Christmas,” said Clarke, and in an instant she was in her mother's arms.

Octavia guided Old Miller over to the table and sat him down so she could serve dinner, wisely distracting the noisy crowd with food so that mother and daughter could have a few moments of privacy. For a long, long time, they simply held each other, tears streaming down both their faces.

“Oh, my love,” murmured Abigail into her daughter’s hair. “How I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” sniffled Clarke tearfully, her face buried in her mother’s chest as though she were a tiny child, and not a grown girl of eighteen. The past fell away, all the years of distance and grief and longing, and they were themselves again.

They were a family.

After a few moments, Abigail collected herself enough to realize she had a thousand questions. Octavia waved them into the small parlor, helping Clarke pull off her snow-covered cloak. Marcus followed them in and closed the door behind them.

“How?” was all Abigail could manage at first. “How are you here?”

Clarke did not reply, but looked, of all people, at _Marcus_ \- looked at him with familiarity, looked at him as though he were, impossibly, a person she already knew - and gestured for him to answer.  “It was a few weeks after the night I saw you in Athenry,” began Marcus. “I had a letter from a woman in Dublin – or rather, Father Jasper did, since it was sent to the rectory. One of the women I’d met when I was collecting evidence for the tribunal. She lived in the house in Dublin next door to yours. She wrote to tell me the postman had just delivered a huge bundle of letters for you, from America. There’d been a delay with one of the mail ships, apparently, so they were just sitting in a London post office collecting dust before somebody found them. There were years’ worth. She didn’t know how to reach you but she remembered the name of the island, and she guessed that it was a small enough village for the parish priest to be able to get the letters to you.”

“If he’d asked me, like a sensible man,” said Octavia, “I’d have mailed the letters to your house in Athenry and you’d have had them in your hands two months ago. But instead, he decided on a grand romantic gesture.”

“I still don’t understand,” said Abigail helplessly.

“I wrote to you,” said Clarke, taking her mother’s hand. “And after months went by and you didn’t write back, I was worried.”

“You never got any of my letters?” said Abigail in astonishment. Clarke shook her head.

“No,” she said, “and I knew you hadn’t gotten any of mine.”

Abigail wrapped her arms around her daughter.

“I thought you hated me,” she said softly. “For what happened to Jacob. I thought you would stay angry forever.”

“I was angry,” Clarke admitted. “For a long time. But I could never hate you. You’re the person I love most in the whole world.” She curled up close into the side of her mother’s body, holding her close, and Abigail swallowed back her tears. She could see from where she sat that Marcus’ eyes were suspiciously shining too, and even Octavia was moved.

“So the woman sent Marcus the whole packet of letters from Clarke,” said Octavia, gently bringing them back to reality to finish their story. “And Marcus wrote back.”

“You did _what_?” she exclaimed, stunned.

“I didn’t know where you were,” he explained, “and I didn’t know how to reach you. I didn’t read the letters, of course, but I took down the address. I wanted Clarke to know that her letters had never made it to you; I was afraid she’d worry. And I felt that I owed her, too, in a way,” he said, turning his gaze from mother to daughter, as something passed between Clarke and Marcus that Abigail did not understand. “It was part of my penance,” he said, “for my role in her father’s death. For the man I’d been, the things I’d done. I owed the truth to her as well. And I wanted her to know about the tribunal. To know that Bishop Thelonious paid for his sins.”

“We all paid for our sins,” murmured Abigail softly, and Marcus nodded.

“I wanted to hate you,” said Clarke to Marcus frankly. “But I couldn’t.” She turned to her mother. “He helped me realize something I wasn’t ready to face, the last time I saw you,” she said. “When I was so angry about what happened to my father and I wanted so badly to believe it was your fault. I wanted to be angry at someone, and you were the person who was right there.  But Marcus made me see that the things you did – the things _he_ did – that you were both only trying to do the right thing.” She took her mother’s hand. “You were trying to save everyone’s lives,” she said. “I didn’t understand that before, but I know it now.”

“You would have been justified,” said Marcus gently. “To hate me, for what I did.”

Clarke shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not when it was so clear how much you loved my mother.”

“He said that?” asked Abigail, astonished.

Clarke smiled.  “He didn’t have to,” she said. “It was written between every line.”

Marcus looked away.

“This is where I come in,” said Octavia briskly. “Marcus finally told me about the letters, and about Clarke, a month ago, which gave me the chance to tell him I knew where you’d gone, and could get a letter to you in Athenry. He would get Clarke on the transport ship from New York and bring her here to the island for Christmas, and I would write to you pretending that the baby was sick and we needed you to come.”

“Families should be together on Christmas,” said Marcus. “I wanted – if I could – to help try and make things right.”

"You did," said Clarke, rising from her seat, and in two steps she was there in front of him and he wrapped her in his strong, farmer's arms, holding her close.  Abigail watched the man she was about to marry embrace her daughter and felt so overcome with love for them both that she thought her heart would break.

It was like a miracle.

 _Clarke was here_.

Against all probability, despite everything that had passed between them, her daughter was _here._ Clarke did not hate her, she had written letters, she wanted her mother back, and she was here now with her boxes and trunks, ready to love Marcus and make friends with Octavia and celebrate Christmas with the people of St. Brigid who had become Abigail’s second family.

Marcus held out his hand and Abigail rose to take it in her own. Octavia discreetly left the room, closing the door behind her, as Marcus wrapped one arm around Abigail, holding Clarke close with the other, and they both sank into the warm, pine-scented wool of his chest.

“Merry Christmas, love,” said Marcus, as he kissed the top of Abigail’s head.

* * *

When they finally emerged from the parlor, the feasting was in full swing and Abigail realized she was starving. Platters laden with roast chicken, heaped around with succulent new potatoes and roast carrots, were passed down the table along with cider, wine and baskets of Octavia’s famous soda bread. The Christmas pudding awaited them all in the kitchen, its spicy warm scent floating out into the room to mingle with the delectable smells of dinner.

Clarke seated herself across the table, next to Bellamy Blake, who immediately aroused Marcus’ fatherly instincts. Bellamy seemed a little dumbstruck by his sudden proximity to such a pretty girl – and the guest of honor to boot, with everyone in the village clamoring to ask her questions about her voyage and her time in America. Twice Clarke leaned across the table to pass the salt or the water pitcher to her mother, and Bellamy’s eyes fell to the swell of her bodice where a demure little trim of lace peeked out from inside the green wool. Both times he looked up to find Marcus glowering at him with a stare so pointed it would pierce steel.

Abigail hadn’t thought it was possible to love Marcus any more than she already did, but watching him stare down Bellamy across the Christmas table was one of the most enjoyable things she’d ever seen, and she was sorry to see the feast come to an end.

Christmas pudding consumed, the crowd began to break up into two separate clusters – those who were settling into their comfortable chairs around the Blakes’ fireside to spend the evening sipping brandy and talking, and those like Marcus – and thus, by necessity, Abigail – who were pulling their boots and cloaks back on to brave the snow for Midnight Mass.

Abigail’s cottage had only one bedroom, so Octavia had made up the guest bedroom in the farmhouse for Clarke. Bellamy and Lincoln and Marcus had a plan to build onto the stone building adjacent to the farmhouse, where Abigail’s surgery was kept, so that when Clarke returned in the spring after finishing school, she’d have a permanent place to live. But Clarke – who was observant – had very little interest in sharing that small little cottage with her mother and Marcus and intruding on their privacy. And the way she smiled back at Bellamy Blake when she caught him staring might also, perhaps have had a little to do with why she was not so _very_ sorry to be staying a quarter-mile from her mother.

Abigail kissed her daughter and said goodnight to the Blakes and pulled her cloak around her as she followed Marcus outside.

“I’ll meet you at the church,” she said. “I’m going back to the cottage to put on warmer clothes. The church will be chilly.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No,” she said, “you go and save us a seat. If you hurry, you’ll beat the crowd from Blake Farm. Now go.”

And she watched him walk away up the sea road, thinking of her own little secret Christmas plan, and smiling to herself.

* * *

Father Jasper was on the front steps of the church, greeting the villagers as the bells rung for Mass. He was delighted to see Marcus and embraced him with great warmth.

“Did the girl arrive safe and sound?” he asked, and Marcus nodded. The young priest beamed in delight. He had approved heartily of the plan, and of the man this new Marcus Kane was becoming. Despite the difference in their ages they’d struck up a fast friendship since Father Jasper’s invaluable assistance with the bishops’ tribunal, and it made him happy to see Marcus building a family for himself out of the dark, violent past he’d left behind him.

The tiny church of St. Brigid was packed already by the time Marcus arrived at quarter to midnight, and he was only able to find two seats together in the very back row. He knelt down in his pew, feeling the cold stone floor through the heavy wool of his best trousers, and he bent his head to pray.

Marcus Kane did not pray in words, when he prayed from his heart. This was something he’d discovered about himself in seminary.  There were images, and emotions, and abstract thoughts, but mindlessly repeating rote prayers did nothing for him.  He’d been afraid, at first, that he was doing it wrong. He’d forced his mind to recite the Lord’s Prayer or the “Hail Holy Queen” in his mind, dutifully mouthing the words as though it were the only true way. As though without words, his prayers meant nothing.

He’d confessed this once to Father Jasper, who had laughed.  “Marcus,” he admonished gently. “God knows what’s in your heart. He has no need of you to translate it for him. Let the prayers simply come the way they come.”

And so he knelt on the cold stone floor and he prayed, and this was his prayer.

A British military uniform, folded up at the bottom of a trunk, with a scrap of paper covered in scribbled names pinned to the chest.

A girl with blonde hair, standing on the deck of a ship bound for Dublin, wrapped in a flannel cloak and desperately missing her mother.

A long wooden table covered in roast meats and pitchers of wine and platters of cakes, with a great pine tree in the corner and the merry din of joyful people filling the air.

The soft milky scent of a sleeping baby, stirring something deep in his heart as he held little Indra so her parents could bring in the spring hay.

Clarke Griffin smiling up with mischievous delight at Bellamy Blake.

The long stretch of sea road that led from the church down to the doctor’s cottage, and all the different men he’d been all the times he’d walked down it.

And above it all, flickering in and out of every image in his mind like a light illuminating everything, was a woman with dark hair and a red dress walking through the doors of the church and unstitching his heart completely.

Marcus Kane had been running from himself his whole life. From an unhappy childhood to the military to the priesthood to this island. He’d fled from self after self, trying to find the place he fit. And so he knelt on the stone floor of the church and he thanked God, not with words but with Abigail Griffin’s smiling face, for the gifts he had been given. For work, for family, for home. For the knowledge, finally, of who he was meant to be.

For love.

For Abigail.

He heard the rustling of skirts beside him as the ringing of the chapel bells finally ceased, and as Mass began, he opened his eyes to find Abigail sitting beside him.

“I thought,” she said, smiling slyly at him, “in honor of the occasion . . .”

And there he was, once again, struck mute in the middle of the church of St. Brigid by Abigail Griffin’s red dress.

“After the gift you gave me,” she said, “I thought to myself, ‘what could I possibly give to Marcus in gratitude for bringing my daughter home?’” And she leaned into him very close as the congregation rose to their feet, and under the cover of hundreds of off-key voices merrily blaring “O Come All Ye Faithful,” she whispered in his ear, “I thought I’d give you the chance to do what you wanted to do the first time.”

“And what’s that?” he murmured back.

“Take me home after church,” she whispered, “and tear this red dress off me.”

And as he stared at her, jaw gaping wide open like a lovestruck fool, she opened her hymnal and began to sing.

**Author's Note:**

> Read the original fic here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4105525
> 
> Listen to the Christmas playlist here: http://8tracks.com/grrlinthefireplace/amid-the-winter-snow


End file.
